Spit Out the Teeth
by lastfingersofleaf
Summary: <html><head></head>Rick and Shane have to deal with the consequences of their one-time fling. R/S R/L implied S/L</html>


_A/N: This is rated M, that means for mature. There is sex and violence and adult language and mpreg and character death and minor spoilers for TWD comic, I don't know what's going to happen in season two yet._

(***)

Glass crunches beneath Shane's boots and there's blood splashed red across the surviving windowpane. The blood drips, in slow, broad lines. The droplets landing on the floor remind Rick of that distant past, of the leaky faucet in the upstairs bathroom, of rain plinking into the gutters.

"You okay?" Shane spits a mouthful of blood before he asks the question.

"Fine, you?"

"Bit my tongue, it stings, but I'll live." Shane spits again, less blood than before. Instead of deep red his saliva is colored a rosy pink. "I gotta say, I think you should let me make some decisions from now on. Yours always end up getting us almost killed."

"We don't know that yours are any better." Shane's half right. Rick's gut instinct isn't what it used to be.

"Just gimme a chance, I'm not asking for a whole lot," Shane echoes what Rick said to Jenner. All anyone wants in life is a chance. Who is he to deny Shane, his best and truest friend, his chance?

"Alright, fair enough. We won't do something unless we both think it's for the best. Is that agreeable to you?"

"Agreeable as anything can be." One of the Walkers is groaning and snarling on the floor, wounded from a shotgun blast to the belly and chest. Its legs are snapped clean into three different pieces but that doesn't stop it from trying to stand. It reaches for Shane with hands that are oozing, rotten flesh down to the bone. Shane kicks it in the back of the head and its skull is so decayed that it caves in like soggy paper-mâché under the solid toe of Shane's boot.

"That's one way to conserve bullets," he laughs as Shane scrapes the gray mush of brain tissue off his shoe.

"And one way to ruin boots."

Outside, thunder roars and lightning snaps bright white across the gray-smudged sky. The rain comes down all at once, staring far off, beyond a line of trees, and the scent of the earth, the wet smell of metal, wood, and dirt floods in through the windows. Everything smells like it's coming to life, like if it pours enough all the Walkers can be washed away. "It doesn't seem fair, does it?" Shane catches water leaking through a hole in the roof in his cupped hands and splashes it onto his face. "It's not cool even when it rains."

"Come winter we're all going to be wishing for the summer." Winter seems so far off but there's so much they need to do before them; things to collect and plans to make. It would be an awful thing to survive hoards of Walkers only to die of hypothermia, their group clustered together for warmth in a snow-covered RV.

Shane strips off his bloody shirt and tosses it to the spot where the water comes leaking down. The water blooms red, sits stagnant, and there's too much static charge and heat. His brain could cook inside his skull if he sits outside long enough. Shane has water or sweat gleaming along his collarbone, the droplets rolling down, and Shane sees him looking, blinks and stretches, gives the muscles in his back and shoulders a deliberate roll.

"Shane," he says, suddenly (rightfully) terrified. He doesn't know what exactly they're doing, but it can't lead to anything good.

Shane kisses him with enough force to knock their teeth together, for something in Shane's mouth to give and bleed. The kiss tastes like blood, like a mouthful of pennies stolen from a grandma's purse. He doesn't want to do this, not in a conscious way. Desire runs too far below the radar to control. He can only give in, let Shane roll over onto his front, unbuckle his belt and get in the position, like they're about to play a strange version of football. He goes with the flow, you can't stop a raging river once it's decided the path it's gonna take, and spits into his hand. For the first time, he wishes he had the sense to snag a few condoms.

"Do it." That's all the consent he needs. He spoons up behind Shane's back, holds himself steady, and has to force his way in. It's a difficult maneuver but he manages.

He wants to make them stop, stand up, because Shane's going to end up with a dozen slivers of glass embedded in his hands and knees. Shane won't have none of that, though, and he spreads his knees apart wider, enough that Rick has a better fit, an easier angle. The glass tinkles and crunches when Shane slides a little forward or braces against a thrust. He's too into it now to want to stop, even if it means hell for Shane's knees and trigger hand. Shane's clinging, tight heat, so tight it's painful, so tight there's a good chance Rick could tear something if he isn't careful, or if he's anymore careless than he already is. He shouldn't be thinking about that kind of thing and he shouldn't be doing this period, but the world is gone, and people want to feel close, tied together, and sex is the easiest way to feel connected to someone. It takes the least amount of effort and it's the most fun.

Shane makes soft, grunting noises, his forehead buried in the crook of his arm, mouth alternating between wide open and closed tight, teeth clenched together to hold back sound. Rick almost wishes they could do it face to face. He'd like to see Shane's expressions but he's not sure he could finish or even get hard if they did it that way. It would be too strange. Fucking Shane is like making love to a part of himself, an extension of his body and soul.

Shane starts to jack himself off, dirty and slow, and sure enough, there's blood on his palm, and glass that glitters like crystals of sugar on his skin. Most of it will brush off, assuming they're lucky, if not Rick'll be spending the next few hours painstakingly picking it out with the tweezers stashed in the first aid kit back with the others. Why he and Shane agreed to go somewhere without carrying at least basic medical supplies, he'll never know.

Shane comes and it's a lot like when a woman does it, in that it pulls Rick over too. If Lori were to ever find out about this, he wonders if telling her it feels basically the same would make it better or worse. He pulls out, careful as he can, and there's a dribble of white down the back of Shane's thigh.

As he checks Shane's hands over for glass, he decides that he'll make sure it doesn't come to that. They both will. He's done something stupid, impulsive, and he won't let it hurt Lori. He'll cast aside everything he and Shane are first.

The patter of raindrops starts growing fainter until it's silent and the swollen wood shudders and drips. The summer storm has passed them over.

"I think it's safe to head back now. The lightning's gone." Shane says, tucking himself into his hands. His palms are bloody, his knees are too. Someone is bound to notice.

"If anyone asks—"

"I walked into a door."

(***)

"I don't want to freak anyone out." Glen wrings his baseball cap in his hands, rolling the fabric over again and again. If he didn't want to worry them, he could have tried to make it look a little less like he and the Grim Reaper just got back from lunch. "But there's something wrong with Shane."

"Where is he?" With fall cooling into winter, they've settled in an old abandoned plantation for the winter. They've boarded up every door and window except for one. For the first time in a long while they feel safe.

"Upstairs in the small bathroom, the one down at the end of the hall." Glen makes a face and shudders. "It's bad though."

Daryl's wielding a machete before Glen can finish his sentence.

"You think one of those Walkers from yesterday bit him?"

"No." He puts his hand to Daryl's chest. "I'm gonna go have a look and you're going to put that thing away."

The group stares at him as though he's volunteered to go into a building full of Walkers with only one bullet in his gun. Sick or not, Shane's still a person. This is nothing they haven't dealt with before. "I'm sure he's fine. I'll be back soon."

The old wooden stairs creak beneath his boots, the wood old and rickety. There's potential that they may one day give way under weight. The plan is to only stay in the plantation long enough to avoid the worst of the snow, so hopefully the stairs will last until then.

Outside the bathroom, he can hear wet gags and the heave of Shane retching. He's not worried, not yet. People get the stomach flu all the time. Germs don't take the day off just because most of the men and women in the country are technically dead. He knocks, his knuckles colliding solid with the faded paint on the door. "I'm coming in."

Shane has his face in the toilet and the muscles in his shoulders and back tighten and shudder as his stomach empties itself. He's sweating despite the chill of it being somewhere near thirty degrees. "You have a fever?"

Shane spits and lifts his head, licks bile off his lips and spits again.

"No. I don't need you worryin' over a stomach bug. Give me a day and I'll be right as rain." He touches the back of his hand to Shane's forehead. There's weak heat against his skin, but nothing that indicates a fever. For a second things feel normal, for once the sickness isn't a poison that gets into the blood and ends up in the brain. This is an illness solved with ginger ale and crackers, not a bullet to the head. "If you don't mind, Rick, I'd like to puke my guts up in peace."

(***)

"Holler if you need anything. I'll have someone bring you some water later." It doesn't settle right with him, to go and leave his friend kneeling there on a grimy tile floor.

Shane doesn't get better. He's up every morning with the sun and the noise of him being sick disturbs everyone trying to sleep. He eventually starts going outside to do it, but that involves spending hours in the snow, blanket wrapped around his shoulders. No one says anything about it in front of him, if only because they're all thinking of gruesome things like stomach cancer or ulcers or Shane throwing up quarts and quarts of blood.

"I really think we need to start considering the possibility that there is something seriously wrong with him." Dale brings up one morning at breakfast, as Carl and Sophia are pushing canned peas from the cellar around on their plates. The greatest thing about the plantation is the food cellar. Whoever lived here before the Walkers got them stocked up on everything from vegetables to fruit to meat. "It isn't healthy and it could be contagious."

Under the table Lori's hand moves to the barely-there curve of her belly. This new baby, they're going to give it everything they have to offer. No child deserves to be born into this kind of world.

"If it was contagious someone would have caught it by now. It's been a month."

"Is Shane going to die, Dad?" Carl looks up at him, his face as pale as the winter snow.

"'Course not, Carl. He'll be fine. He's a fighter."

"Yeah." Carl nods, sniffling. "Shane's the best." Shane's iis/i the best for being so good to Lori and Carl, for treating them like his own. Shane's like part of the family, through and through.

Shane walks in, clutching his shotgun and shivering. Aside from looking a little weary, he doesn't have the appearance of someone terminally or gravely ill. He puts his gun down and blows into his hands to warm them. "We're having canned roast beef and peas, you want some, Shane?"

Shane takes one look at the plate Carl's offering him, spins on his heel, and goes back outside.

"Baby." Lori brushes her lips across Carl's cheek. "You eat your food; if Shane is hungry he'll make himself something."

(***)

Whatever's been plaguing Shane for most of the winter tapers off at the end of January. Rick doesn't know if it's a good sign or a bad one, if Shane's really healed or his body's simply quit trying to fight. Shane seems to feel better, though. He's eating regularly again, playing catch with Carl in the halls with an old baseball Carl and Sophia found in the cellar. They can relax, even if it's just for a few weeks. The snow should start melting towards the end of February and come March it may be warm enough to leave.

Late one night, on Valentine's Day, strangely enough, there are shuffling noises coming from the first floor in the kitchen. Rick takes a gun, hoping he won't have to use it, and wonders how a Walker could get past Dale while he's on patrol. He bursts into the kitchen, ready to fire, but instead of walking, stinking flesh, he only sees Shane.

"Sorry." Shane shrugs the rough equivalent of an apology. "I thought I was bein' quiet." He has an opened can of pears in front of him and he's spearing the fruit with a fork.

"It's alright. Glad to see you're better."

Shane stiffens and drops his fork into the can.

"Better, sure." Rick doesn't like the sad, empty ring to Shane's laugh. "I don't think this counts as better." Shane stands up in one swift motion, grabs the hem of his t-shirt and sweatshirt and rakes it up to his chest.

It takes Rick a few minutes to see it, the distorted warp of his body. Shane's stomach is protruding slightly above his pelvis, pushed unnaturally forward and out. It isn't enough to really notice, not like the rounding of Lori's pregnant belly, but he's seen Shane shirtless more times than he can count, and Shane just doesn't look iright/i. "My grandpa died of a liver tumor when I was six, it started this way, near as I can remember."

"We could—"

"There ain't a thing we can do and you know it." Shane resumes eating his pears. When he finishes the fruit, he starts drinking the juice and syrup straight from the can. Rick watches the muscles in his throat work as he swallows. After he's done, Shane wipes his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. "G'night."

(***)

They leave the plantation near the beginning of March and stop at the first town they see. It's small, with only a local grocery store and a few dozen houses. It has a local clinic, however, and soon as they finish picking through the market for food they head inside.

"You know," Dale says, deep in thought. "This ultrasound is battery powered, I think it may still work. If that's something you want."

"Oh yes." Lori stretches out on the table and Dale gets to work.

Lori's smiling and Rick thinks his face could split in two, he's so happy. Their baby is right there, squirming on the monitor, alive and healthy, as near as any of them can tell. It's a shame not a single doctor seems to have survived the Walkers.

"I don't really know what I'm doing, but that seems right." Dale sets down the manual and removes the ultrasound from Lori's skin. A snapshot of their baby is frozen on the monitor. He can make everything; head, fingers, and feet.

"That's my little brother or sister?" Carl doesn't sound convinced.

"Yes it is, baby." Lori pulls her shirt down and holds Carl close. "You looked like that once too."

"Weird." Carl wrinkles his nose. His cheeks are flushed with excitement. He'll make a good older brother, Rick's sure of it.

"If we're done here at the maternity ward, I think we should get going before the sun starts to set." Daryl rests his crossbow on his shoulder and edges closer to the door.

"Hold on." He takes the ultrasound wand from Dale's hand. He's only seen a tumor once, when he and Shane had to escort a prisoner to the ER. The doctor let them take a look at the MRI and they had to watch during the kidney ultrasound to make sure the guy didn't get away. "Shane."

"No."

Everyone is watching, though no one has a single clue what this is about. He and Shane have their own form of communication. It comes from years of being partners and always watching the other's back. He's sat up nights with Shane to keep him awake through concussions and Shane's pressed his hands to Rick's shoulder to try and keep in his blood. They don't need regular words the way most people do.

"We gotta know for sure."

Shane's glare is cold enough to turn Rick's heart to ice, but he does as he's told. He strips off his coat, then the shirt underneath.

"Shit," Glen gasps, too surprised to keep his comments to himself. It is startling, there's no denying that. Shane doesn't look human. He's got a bulge, nothing too big, but nothing too small to be passed off as bloating or a really awful bruise.

"I was going to keep my tumor a secret until the thaw." Shane stomps over to the examination table and angrily turns the stirrups out of the way. "Why don't we all have a nice long look, then."

"What am I supposed to do?" Dale picks up the wand again and squirts on more of the jelly.

"Liver tumor," Shane grumbles, counting the tiles in the ceiling. "Let Rick get a peek so he can come to terms with my imminent demise."

Carl is crying softly before the wand touches Shane's skin. Rick hates springing this on his son so suddenly. He'll sit Carl down later and the two of them will talk. Then he'll let Carl spend some quality time with Shane.

Dale angles the wand over Shane's protruding abdomen. The picture starts to come into focus as he drags it back and forth. Rick squints, waiting for what he remembers from that late night in the ER.

Instead, the screen is familiar, and he hears that steady 'whoosh whoosh, whoosh'.

"This machine is broken." Shane's face is total disbelief.

The room is unnaturally silent. Even Glen doesn't have anything to say.

"It's working fine, son." Dale flips the ultrasound off and then on again to prove his point. The image never changes.

Rick never thought something like this was possible. Only, it has to be, because he's seeing it. On the screen, in black and white, grainy blue, there is a head and two feet and two hands, stumpy, cute arms and legs. It's a baby, clear as day, no different than the one in Lori. He was expecting a tumor, an unidentifiable lump of tissue, not something with a heartbeat and a brain. Shane isn't going to die, not from something that sucks up his nutrients and poisons his blood. Rick's relieved. The confusion will set in later, once he lets it, once they're somewhere safe.

Shane tugs his shirt down and kicks the equipment away.

"I liked it better when I had a tumor. I think we're all going crazy. Maybe the water's poisoned."

"An ultrasound doesn't lie," Dale tells Shane while he makes calming motions with his hands. Dale's expecting Shane to lash out and hit him. Rick's expecting it too.

"I'm a _man_."

Daryl snorts.

"You wanna say something to my face, Daryl?" Shane hops down off the table, pissed and looking for a fight.

"I could never hit a pregnant lady. My momma raised me with manners."

Shane takes a swing and Rick's the one to cut in and block the punch. Shane's fuming, rightfully so, and since he can't beat the hell out of Daryl he kicks a hole in the clinic's plaster wall.

"Feel better?" He and Shane have so much they need to talk about, but Lori and everyone else is watching, and Rick can't ask what he wants to.

"No." Shane stomps out into what's left of the early March snow.

"Pack up whatever supplies you can find. I'll talk to him, then we'll all head out."

Shane's sitting on the curb near the front entrance, his head in his hands. Rick can't begin to wrap his mind around what's happening. Shane's probably ten times as confused.

"You know, we've seen plenty of crazy shit these last few months, but _this_, it can't be real. The dead not staying dead makes more sense." Shane touches the bump under his shirt, really touches it for the first time that Rick's seen, lays his whole palm flat. "Feels real enough."

"A little Rick and Shane, sounds strange, doesn't it?" He's smiling. He can't stop it. By some twist of fate, maybe a miracle, Shane's having his baby. There's going to be a person running around someday with his eyes and Shane's nose and his jaw-line and Shane's dark hair. If he was ever going to have children with someone aside from Lori, Shane's the best choice.

"We're not gonna have this conversation. Shut up." Shane spits and puts his head between his knees. The color leeches out of his face until he's pale down to his neck.

"Do you want me to get you something?"

"No." Shane pinches the bridge of his nose. "We should get going. Just because we haven't seen a Walker doesn't mean there aren't some waiting to eat us."

Rick scans the parking lot. There's nothing, not even an animal pawing at the first shoots of grass. He wonders if the weather can get cold enough to freeze a Walker solid. That would explain the lack of them during the worst parts of the winter. It would be hard to walk with frozen solid flesh and bones. Shane's right, there could be Walkers anywhere waiting to thaw.

"Ride with Glen and Lori, I'll take your Jeep."

"Like hell," Shane growls, his teeth beginning to chatter. The sun is shifting behind the clouds and the afternoon is a flat, dismal gray. There's an icy rain threatening to fall and slick up the roads enough to prevent travel. "I'm driving my own car."

"Have it your way."

(***)

He gets Shane alone later when they're bathing. They filled up pans with snow and melted them down on the stove. It's not a real bath, but it's warm, and they dip washcloths into the water and scrub at their dirty skin. If you spend enough time bundled up against the cold without washing away the sweat, you start to smell something terrible.

"We need to talk about this." It's been four days and he and Shane haven't exchanged more than a few hurried words. This is the result of a mistake they made months ago. They can't ignore it. This isn't something that'll just go away.

"You think this is the best time?" Shane lathers shampoo into his hair. The girls raided the local drugstore in the last town and brought out detergents and soaps by the armful, as much as they could carry. They even stocked up on toothbrushes and toothpaste. Rick never would have thought to pick up essentials like that.

"We're alone, why not?"

"I don't see why we need to talk about it at all." Shane pours a cup of water over his head. The soap washes off in streaks of bubbly white. "You aren't gonna tell Lori, so why bring it up?"

"We can't pretend it didn't happen." This is bigger than secrets and infidelity and the line between casual lovers and friends. This is a whole new person.

"That was the plan the first time around." Shane has finished rinsing his hair clean. He shakes his head once, sending little droplets of water flying. One lands on Rick's forehead and stays there until it turns cold.

"You can't expect me to stand by and watch someone else raise my child."

Shane laughs and Rick's never heard anything so empty.

"People do it all the time."

He knows it's just hormones that are doing this, that are making Shane crazy, getting into his blood. Lori's the same way. Pregnancy messes with the brain. He has to let Shane feel like he's right, give him some space and in a few minutes it'll pass, swept aside and out of reach.

(***)

He becomes a father again early on a Wednesday morning, in the darkest hour before the dawn, when the stars disappear but the sun hasn't started to creep up from behind the horizon. Lori has a death grip on his hand, squeezing the very bones, and everything is loud and fast and he can't concentrate.

"It's a girl!" Carol catches his daughter in a pink towel, wipes her down, clears out her mouth so she can let out a good, strong wail. She's still attached to Lori by the umbilical cord and Rick uses his knife to cut her free once Andrea has tied a shoelace around the cord to keep the baby from bleeding out.

"Let me see her." She's handed to Lori instantly. She's slimy and wet, but she's pink and active, and that alone makes her beautiful. "I want to name her Judith, Rick, after my mother."

"Of course." He kisses her forehead; brushes aside soaked strands of her hair.

Judith is chubby cheeked and dark haired. She looks nothing like Carl did. Her face is completely different and he thinks it is because she takes so much after her mom. Their little girl is going to be just like her mother, he can feel it. "I'm gonna go tell Carl he has a sister. Once you've had a few minutes to clean up I'll bring him inside to see her."

Carl's supposed to be asleep, not that he can imagine anyone sleeping through that. Childbirth isn't a quiet business. Lori's screams were loud enough to keep even the deepest sleeper awake.

Carl runs up to him and grips his shirt.

"Do I have a brother?"

"Even better," he answers, grinning when Carl is briefly disappointed. "Having a sister is a way better deal, Carl. A brother would get on your nerves eventually. A little sister is going to want you to protect her and be her hero. What's better than that?" Carl yawns, but he seems placated.

"How'd it go?" Shane's face is anxious. Rick isn't surprised. It'll be Shane doing this soon enough, it's no wonder he's worried. He wants to be reassured that things are going to go right.

"We named her Judith." He gives Shane a hug, pretending to be off the moon, and uses the excuse to cop a quick feel of Shane's belly. Judith's birth has him bursting with fatherly pride.

"Judith." Shane tests out the name. "I like it."

"Not like it really matters, she isn't your baby." He bumps Shane in the shoulder with his fist. He's too excited to function. It feels like there are crackles of electricity sparking through his veins. "You'll have your own soon enough."

"Dad." Carl pulls on his shirt and stretches out the ends. "I want to see Judith."

"Let's go, then." Carl runs up the stairs of the camper. "I'll see you later."

He waves to Shane and shuts the door.

(***)

He doesn't mention it to anyone, because it isn't supposed to be something on his mind, but he's been counting down the days and the weeks. Two and a half to go, give or take, assuming things for a man and a woman work out the same.

"I need you to watch Judith for a while, kay?" Lori kisses him and places Judith in his arms. "Carol, Andrea, Sophia, and I are going to go bathe." Judith is little over a month old. She sleeps most of the day and only wakes up to eat or be changed or cry. Standard baby behavior, though Judith has fits of crying at night that keep everyone awake. Each time Judith starts to cry it scares them, but so far a Walker hasn't shown up yet.

He finds Carl sitting with Shane on lawn chairs in the shade of a tree. Shane's sitting with his ass up at the very front of his seat to keep the pressure off his back. He never openly admits to being in any sort of discomfort, but there are moments when Rick knows he is.

"Back hurting?" He pulls up a chair. Judith is sleeping in his arms, her little pink mouth open, dark hair starting to grow in as wispy curls.

"Nope," Shane says and never takes his eyes off of Judith. Rick suspects it's a baby-crazy thing, the hormones gettin' in Shane's blood that give him an interest in anything with chubby cheeks that wears a diaper. Since Judith was born Shane hasn't stopped eyeing her with a stare that says all he wants in the world is to hold her. "Just tellin' Carl about that time you and me caught a bank robber."

"Oh yeah?" He tries to keep the laughter out of his voice.

"Yeah. Guy nearly got me right in the eye." Shane jabs a thumb into the corner of his face, halfway between his eye and temple. "Thought I was gonna be blind for life."

"He hit you with a roll of quarters and he'd barely managed to grab more than the donation jar for the children's hospital."

"Aw, don't be like that, man, you're ruinin' my story." Shane dismisses him with a wave of his hand. "Don't listen to your daddy, this guy was dangerous, a real bad guy. Took both me iand/i your dad to subdue him." Outside of Shane's impressive story, in the mundane realm of reality, the bank robber was a twenty year old kid who pelted them with change before they tackled him to the ground.

"Is that how it happened, dad?"

Judith makes a gurgling sound in her sleep.

"Exactly." Carl wanders off soon after, lured away by the promise of playing cards with Dale and Glen.

Shane moves lower in his chair, his shoulders braced against the back of the chair to keep him from falling out of his seat. He's the poster boy for misery, sitting there with his shotgun across his lap, the butt brushing his belly. Rick's not sure Shane could fire the gun without falling over, his weight thrown off by the additional fifteen pounds at his front and center. Shane's not nearly as big as Lori got, Dale has a theory about men carrying more towards the kidneys. None of them are scientists and Dale is closest thing to one they've got.

Shane mops at his face with his shirt. The heat is hell on anyone. He doesn't want to think about how bad it is if you're carrying a whole other person inside you. Shane's even stopped wearing his favorite boots if he can get away with it. As long as they aren't walking over burning asphalt or gravel he tramps around in a pair of socks.

"I know you wanna ask." He wonders if he's that obvious, if his hands are really twitching because they want so badly to feel the baby move. With Lori he was there for everything, every flutter, hiccup, punch, and kick. "Get it over with."

"Does it move?"

"All the fuckin' time." Shane grunts and sits up real quick, his hands curled so tight around the arms of his chair that his fingers tremble and his knuckles have never been that white. Rick knows that face, the tautness in Shane's body, the way he doubles forward and swears.

"Oh shit."

Off on the other side of camp, someone lets out a long, high pitched scream followed by the boom of a gun. "Shane, take Judith." Shan hasn't held a baby since Carl was small but the way he cradles Judith to him is nothing short of reverential. He takes Shane's shotgun and hands him the berretta in his pocket. "Go in the Winnebago and we'll handle this later." 'This' being ithe/i moment; the end to the last strange eight and a half months.

There are about a dozen Walkers shuffling towards camp. Daryl's already shot four and Glen's pounding a ten year old girl's skull in with a bat. He's not used to handling Shane's gun; he prefers smaller rifles and handguns, not big, hulking things that can blow apart a person's face. He likes to kill Walkers quick and efficient but the shotgun splatters half of a head to the wind. One of them comes at him, drool and blood leaking from its open mouth. It has yellowed teeth jutting from the exposed bones of its jaws. He can see the grayish-black flesh of its gums right before he shoots it through its dried-out lips. He takes off the lower part of its skull and it goes down. The Walker is so far gone he can't tell if it used to be a man or a woman.

Everything smells sour and rank of Walker guts. He steps through slippery strings of putrid intestines and slides through patches of grass soaked with blood and pulpy bone. The group is more concerned with saving bullets than getting rid of the Walkers fast, so they hack off heads at the neck or bust through the brain with the butts of rifles or the blunt ends of anything big and heavy enough to wield.

Lori has Carl pressed close to her chest as they stand huddled behind Glen. The table and benches they were sitting at are overturned and the playing cards are scattered and smeared with blood.

"Rick, where's Judith?" She has fear wild in her eyes and he'd never let it come to that, not ever.

"She's with Shane." That doesn't calm her down one bit. As soon as Daryl puts an arrow in the final Walker she's running across the gore splashed ground. He follows her only when he remembers that there are more important things he needs to be doing than helping to burn the dead.

The girls are inside the Winnebago talking while Carl and Sophia are drawing pictures on the floor. Shane's at the far end, away from everyone else, and he's sitting with his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure thing." Shane walks, a little slower than usual, his fingers digging into the soft skin of his palms, and as soon as they're out of sight behind a row of trees he leans over and retches. There's not much in his stomach and most of what comes up is yellow bile and thick strings of spit.

"How far apart?"

"I don't know, like nine, eight." Shane sucks in a big gulp of air, muscles in his thighs trembling. "Man this is not gonna be fun."

"We're heading out soon as we burn the bodies. It's not safe to stick around. Can you hold out for an hour or two? We only need to get about a hundred miles away. Lori and Carol can take care of you until then."

"Fuck that, Rick," Shane wraps his fingers around Rick's bicep. "Don't you say a word."

"You can't keep this a secret, trust me. You heard Lori."

"I'm not Lori." Shane heads towards camp, a hand on his back, thumb rubbing small circles into the base of his spine.

(***)

Shane wants to drive his Jeep himself, but the idea is suicidal. He ends up driving with Shane in the passenger seat, the rush of wind cooling their sun-heated faces. Shane won't stop moving his legs or leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees to shift his weight.

They stop to make camp for the night a good two hundred and fifty miles down the road. They're moving deeper and deeper into back country, where there is nothing but forest and abandoned farms. It's far enough from the more populated areas that when the infection hit there weren't enough people in the area to form a Walker population that poses a threat. Shane paces for an hour while they set up strings of tin cans and tents. If life was like those old Saturday morning cartoons, Shane would have walked a hole into the ground.

"Shane, do you want to play cards with me and Sophia?" Carl's washed off the wrinkled and stepped on deck. The cards almost look brand new.

"Maybe later, little man."

"Please? You promised you'd show me how to play poker."

"You're right, I did. Bring the table over here and we'll play." Shane smiles but his eyes are glassy, far off and distant. Rick's impressed that he hasn't screamed yet.

Shane's teaching Carl to bluff when he stops midsentence. Slowly, like a single raindrop slides down a dry pane of glass, a gush of fluid dribbles out of Shane's pants, through the webbing of his chair, and onto the grass. The flow ebbs after a few minutes, though not until there's a puddle below Shane in the dirt.

"Eww," Carl says loud enough for everyone to hear him and turn to look.

Andrea frowns like Shane has intentionally ruined her day.

"I'll go boil the water."

"No need to do that," Shane chokes out as he struggles to breathe. "I can take care of this myself."

"No you can't." He says but Shane's already doubled over, rattling off every swear word he knows.

"Don't an idiot." Shane's too busy trying to keep from sinking to his knees to protest Rick taking hold of his arm. "We'll get you settled inside and—"

"None of you are doing anything." Shane shakily steps up into the RV and grips the door handle with his hand like it's all keeping him upright. "Don't think about following me."

He slams the door shut and locks it from the inside.

(***)

Dale fans himself with his hat as the sun sinks closer and closer to the ground. Waiting always seems to go on forever, but in the two hours since Shane locked himself in they haven't heard a sound. Not a single peep. He doesn't know if his best friend is dead or alive or caught somewhere between.

"I thought having babies made people scream." Sophia looks up at Carol with big, questioning eyes.

"Some people more than others, sweetheart." Carol smiles, but there's worry darkening her eyes too. They're all thinking it. Silence has never been a good sign for anything. "It depends on the person."

"Shane's real brave," Carl tells Sophia, as if that explains everything. He supposes that for someone Carl's age, it does. Adults are heroes in a kid's eyes, superhuman, and they never learn the truth about adulthood until they grow up.

"We have another set of keys." Andrea holds up the spare pair; her grin is uneasy. "Do you want to go in?"

"He doesn't want us there." He's not sure he wants to see what's going on behind that door. The images in his head are gruesome. Dale mentioned cutting Shane open once, only once, and he doesn't want to let it get to that. He wouldn't be able to stand bursting in through the door only to find Shane cold and dead. "We're not doctors, if something goes wrong, there's nothing we can do." He wishes Shane would make just a little noise, enough to let them know he's still living. "Give him another few hours. Once it gets dark we'll check on him."

Waiting doesn't sit well with him, not in his chest or under his skin.

"Historically," Dale speaks up to fill the silence. "Childbirth was a solitary experience. In the animal kingdom the mothers go off on their own to give birth. It was even considered a right of passage in some cultures. The girls that survived it were acknowledged as women." Dale's not as good at comforting people as he fancies himself to be.

"Let's change the subject, okay? We don't want to scare the kids." Lori takes Carl and Sophia by the hands. "Now's a good time for you two to go do some reading." Lori's point is clear as day; she doesn't want the kids around when they drag Shane's dead body out.

They're basking in that last real bit of sunlight before dusk, anxiously hoping for a sign of something that points towards life. Rick starts to come to terms with Shane's death, hard as it may be. The two of them have been best friends since before they were both old enough to walk. Living without Shane is going to take some adjustment and a hell of a lot of time to grieve.

A mewling starts up, soft as the sounds made by a kitten, and grows steadily louder until it's that unmistakable newborn baby cry.

Andrea's face brightens with a smile.

Glenn lets out a long, shaky breath.

T-Dog breaks out a six pack of beer he's been saving.

It's a brief moment of happiness. There are so few reasons to smile when everything good and right in your life is long gone. A baby, a new life, a sign that things carry on, go with the flow, overcome all obstacles, is one of the few true causes for celebration.

(***)

The cicadas buzz loudly in the dying light. The sun is setting to the west; off beyond the green Georgia hills and the wash of gold make shadows stretch deformed and long.

"Here." Andrea presses a mug of broth into his hands. Rick doesn't know where she managed to get it from. They haven't had food they didn't catch themselves in almost nine days. The canned food ran out and most of the stores they've run into now were looted months ago. "I don't know if he's feeling up to eating yet, but would you mind bringing that to him?"

"Sure," he says, smiling, playing the role of helpful best friend. He hasn't seen the baby yet and biologically impossible or not, he's dying to. He can't explain the sensation of being deprived a look at his child. He was there when Carl was born, when Lori gave birth to Judith in the back of the RV. This is different, granted, this is something that shouldn't even exist, but apparently when the world decided to give the dead a second chance at life the laws of nature went on vacation too.

"Christ," Daryl murmurs as Andrea brings out a blood spattered sheet. The white linen is bright crimson, and Rick doesn't know how a person can lose that much blood from inside them and still be around to talk about it. Lori didn't bleed nearly that heavily when she had Judith or Carl. "You better bury that thing before a Walker smells it."

"You heard him, Glen." Andrea tosses the gory mess to Glen. He catches it, arms held as far away from his body as possible. There isn't much color in his cheeks and it looks like Glen is fighting hard just to keep his dinner down.

"This is so disgusting." Glen turns his face away from the sheet, probably trying to keep from smelling the salt and iron scent of blood.

The mug is cooling in his hands and he pulls open the Winnebago door in a hurry, trying to keep the bugs from flying in. All the shades on the windows are open except for one. Shane has the one over the table that pulls out into a bed drawn.

"Hey, how're you feelin'?" He walks across the floor as quiet as possible. The last thing they need is for the new baby to start crying and attract attention.

Shane doesn't need to answer him; his haggard appearance is answer enough. Shane is pale under his natural tan and his eyes are framed underneath by dark, exhausted circles. He looks worn out right down to the bone, which doesn't surprise Rick. Nine hours of anything is enough to put anyone down for the count. As bad as Shane looks and as much as Rick wants to be sympathetic, he's more interested in the bundle in Shane's arms, the baby caught and wrapped up in an old flannel shirt and half a towel. "I brought you something to eat." He shows Shane the cup, hoping they can make a trade. "Can I see it?" He asks, disturbed that he doesn't know if his new child is a boy or a girl.

"Yeah, c'mere." Shane very carefully scoots closer to the wall, his teeth clenched together in a wince. Shane's jaw is set tight and he feels so guilty for it, even though this is half his fault and half Shane's. Shane shifts the baby in his arms, to the side near Rick, and it's like being a father for the first time all over again. He feels lost and wrecked and raw. Carl was born old-man bald, Judith with delicate, chestnut colored curls, but his and Shane's baby has a mop of thick, dark hair. "He's not gonna be breakin' hearts anytime soon." Shane's voice is hoarse, whisper-quiet like a butterfly flying with a breeze.

"The head starts to get round after a few days and he won't be quite so crusty." The baby has the whitish, peeling skin of most newborns and his eyes are the typical shade of newborn-blue. Rick thinks he's beautiful, from his misshapen skull to his wrinkled little toes. "How are you?"

"Man, I just had eight pounds of person come out of me, how do you fucking think?" Shane's words are angry but there's no harshness in his face.

"Nah, this guy? He's seven and a half pounds at most." Shane's laugh dissolves into a low, sharp groan and intake of breath.

"Sure didn't feel like it." Shane wipes the sweat forming on his forehead off with the blanket. The baby starts to whimper; feebly waves his tiny hands. Rick knows that cry, the rounding of the infant's mouth. Shane is looking at his son like he's three seconds from combusting or falling apart. He has the wide-eyed panic of a new parent. "Shit, how do we get him to quiet down?"

"That part is real easy."

Shane raises an eyebrow at him. He points a finger to Shane's chest. Shane's chest looks the same as it always has, maybe less definition, but Rick's sure if he touches the muscles with his fingers they' d be firm underneath with milk. He doesn't reach out, though, because there's a wall between the two of them made of impenetrable steel and glass. They're not who they used to be and they never will be again. Life is too different, with or without Walkers thrown into the mix. They're bonded, glued together in by the seven and a half pounds of a person lying in Shane's arms, but the bond doesn't go more than skin deep.

"You aren't serious."

"How else did you think he was going to eat? Bottles and formula? Where would you warm them up?" He stacks a pillow behind Shane's back and helps him turn the baby's face towards his chest. "Cup your hand, like a C." Shane won't do it while he's watching, so he sighs and looks away. There are a few grunts and exasperated noises before Shane says

"It's too small to latch onto."

"Just let him try." Shane hisses and swears but eventually Rick hears loud, breathy baby swallows. "We should think of a name for him."

"We?" He doesn't need to look at Shane's face to know his mouth is twisted up in an ugly, vicious snarl. "There is no we, nuh uh. You're not the one around here that everyone thinks is a fucking fag. Half the camp thinks I fucked Jenner or Morales. Hell, Andrea asked if it was Merle's. You got your family and I've got mine."

"Shane, please, let me hold him. He's my son." He touches his finger to the baby's soft cheek. Shane shoves his hand away.

"Yeah, he's your son, but I'm the one that's been out of commission for months. If Walkers attack us tonight I won't be able to stand up, let alone help." Rick knew things wouldn't be perfect or happy, but he never thought they'd be like this. "Go be with Lori and Carl. We're done here." He sets the coffee mug of soup on the countertop and leaves only because he wouldn't put it past Shane to try and punch him out.

"Well?" Everyone is gathered around the fire, waiting. They think he and Shane have had some big heart to heart or that there has been a big reveal. Vultures is what they are, big, lumbering chicken-hawks, but there's barely any gossip in the world these days.

"Well what?" Lori makes room for him to sit down. The fire is crackling warm and bits of wood pop and sizzle, sending a ribbon of orange sparks into the air.

"It's Jenner's, isn't it?" Carol is smiling and it's like they're watching an episode of the Maury or Springer instead of discussing a human being.

"No way." Glen nudges Daryl with his knee. "Fifty bucks says you're an uncle."

Daryl punches Glen, just hard enough for it to hurt.

"My brother ain't no fag, Chinaman."

"I still got my money on Morales," T-Dog says, grinning, leaning back. "What's it look like?"

"Like a baby." This is his business, Shane's business. It's his son they're talking about, a mix of his and Shane's flesh and blood. "He'll come clean when and iif/i he wants to." Lori passes him a piece of meat. Judging from the fatty, gamey taste, he guesses Daryl caught a possum.

"You so know." Glen grins, moving his hands closer to the fire. "You totally know."

Rick chews the blackened bit of possum until it loses its taste. Then, pushing the thoughts of his unnamed son out of his head, he holds baby Judith, runs his fingers through Carl's hair, and pretends he isn't straining to see in through the Winnebago's darkened windows.

(***)

Shane's up and moving, albeit slowly, late the next morning. He steps into the sun with the baby bundled up in a towel and everyone crowds around him to get a peek, even though Rick suspects Daryl's only interested because he's half afraid that this might really be his nephew.

"Aww," Glen cooes, waggling a finger at the infant, a goofy smile on his face. Once again, Rick thinks Glen's only getting so close to confirm or refute his bet on the child's paternity. He hasn't heard quite how much is at stake in the pool, but whatever it is seems substantial.

"What's his name?" Sophia asks, her eyes big as stars. She's enchanted with Rick and Shane's son, with his scrunched up face.

"Cooper." Shane tucks the towel over their son's face to keep it out of the light. "Cooper Walsh."

He deserves this, to be kept from his son and left out of the naming process entirely. He wants to complain, but Cooper a decent name. They'll call him Coop for short and Rick can see him, a few years older and toddling around, no more Walkers in sight, playing with Carl and Judith on a front lawn in a world that's normal and safe.

"Did you give him a middle name?" Carol is dying to take Cooper, it's plain to see, and Shane hands him over, a spark of reluctance flashing in his eyes.

"Edwin," Shane tells her and this must be his revenge. Rick can't think of anything worse. "It's a family name."

Daryl laughs, relieved and gloating.

"All of y'all, pay the fuck up."

Everyone grumbles and complies.

Rick just stares at Shane, in angry, horrified shock. Shane has no idea what it feels like to have your child right in front of you and not be able to be a parent to it. He wants to balance his son on his knee, tuck him into bed at night, ruffle his hair and be the one Cooper comes running to when he's afraid of the dark. Shane's going steal that from him. Shane's going to steal everything.

(***)

Cooper is a quiet baby. Mostly.

At night he gets colicky just like Judith and everyone is wide awake, sitting up in the cars, listening to the sound of the babies' shrieking their little lungs out. Rick doesn't understand it. Carl slept soundly through the night and now, when silence is crucial to their survival, both babies in the camp can't go an hour without crying. It must be something new, something in Rick's genes.

"I can't take another night of this; get those things to shut up." Daryl bangs loudly on the side of the Winnebago and that only gets the infants to scream louder, in discomfort iand/i fear.

"We're trying." Lori's face is red. She's been crying; too overwhelmed. He's doing his part, walking around with Judith while Lori tries to rest, but she's still the one that has to feed the baby every two and a half hours.

"Oh come on, Coop, go to sleep." Shane's bouncing lightly on his feet, Coop's head resting against his shoulder. Shane's learning fast, copying what he can, making things up when he's too proud to ask. Nearly a month and Rick still hasn't had a chance to hold his son. He doesn't know if Cooper's eyes have started to darken to their natural color or if they're always going to stay that shade of blue.

"Dad." Carl buries his face in his arms. "I'm sleepy."

"I know." He puts his hand on the top of Carl's head. "We're going to try to find a real place to stay at tomorrow. There's a town up ahead and you can have a bed and the babies won't bother you anymore."

"Good. Having little brothers and sisters totally sucks."

"Hon, Cooper's not your brother." Lori finally gets Judith to settle down by offering her a nipple. He misses the pacifiers they used to have at home, stored away in a box for the day they had another baby. Pacifiers would do them all a world of good.

"He's kind of like my brother."

"No, no he's not." Lori's never been the type to be so callous in front of other people. In private she has a temper, but he's never heard her say something like this, not with half a dozen of their friends around to hear. Her words are sharp enough to cut through bone.

Shane just looks at Cooper and chuckles.

"Your momma's right. Coop's more like your cousin."

"If that," Lori adds. She and Shane lock eyes and something passes between them, something Rick doesn't understand. He thinks maybe Lori knows, somewhere in her gut, a product of her mother's intuition. It's not too hard to see the resemblance; then again, all newborns pretty much look the same until they hit six months of age.

"If that." Shane agrees, turning his attention back to Cooper.

(***)

Rick's got Lori's blood on the front of her shirt and her intestines in his hands.

"Lori, Lori," he says, over and over. She can't hear him. The only dead that can hear are the kind that won't stay in a grave.

"You shouldn't touch her like that. You don't know if it's in her blood." Shane crouches down beside him, lays a palm on his back.

"Did you find Judith?" He should be looking for his daughter, listening for the sounds of her sobs, but he's frozen, stuck trying to keep pieces of Lori from falling further out of her belly. The coils of her intestines are silky smooth and steaming warm.

"No." Shane chokes and Rick realizes that he's crying. They both are. Of course they both are. Lori was one of Shane's closest friends and Judith, Judith was his niece more or less. "You should go be with Carl." Shane sucks in hard and wipes his eyes. Shane's never cried in all the years Rick has known him, it seems fitting that his tears would come like a flash flood; quick and violent and gone in an instant.

"But Lori—"

"Me and Glen will take care of her, go on."

Shane and Glen bury Lori out under the school's front lawn, while he sits with Carl in the auditorium, Carl's face buried in the front of his shirt. He's used to the sound of his son crying, though not like this. Carl's never been so openly devastated. Carl's never known real loss. Most of his grandparents died before he was born and his one grandmother that didn't passed away before he was old enough to remember her. Carl's lost his mother and his baby sister in the same day.

The whole place smells of Walkers, of moldy, decomposing flesh. Carol and Andrea try to mop as much blood and guts as they can from the hallways, but it'll never smell the same, not without bleach and Windex and lemon-scented cleaning solution. T-Dog manages to break the janitor's closet open and then bit by bit things start to shape up, smell right, and Rick's heart sets to a hollow numb.

"I don't know if we should stay here," he tells Shane at the breakfast table, poking at one of the fruit cups the school has boxes and boxes of in the back of the walk-in freezer.

"We chained all the doors, double this time. The windows are barred. I think we have it locked down tight."

When he closes his eyes he sees Walkers running down the halls. He sees Lori trip. He sees Judith go tumbling from Lori's arms and roll around a corner, out of sight.

Cooper gurgles in his sling, one of his hands waving in the air as he squirms. "You want to hold Coop?"

Four months and he's never wanted anything more.

Cooper's tiny, but he's heavy, solid, a good weight. He gets an up-close and personal look at his son for the first time. Coop has brown eyes and he's getting to the age where he can smile sporadically. Rick misses his wife and his daughter more than he can put into words and seeing his son helps, even if the relief is ephemeral, because Lori and Judith are never coming back.

"I don't want his middle name to be Edwin." He strokes a finger against the side of Cooper's cheek. His skin is baby soft, overheated from being so close to Shane's body while he slept in the sling.

"Do middle names matter anymore? There's no birth certificate to fill out."

"I don't want people thinking he's Jenner's. I can't lose another child. You don't know what it's like." Shane doesn't say a word, but he looks like he has something he wants to say.

"We're not gonna take it back now. Shit, you have any idea what people will think? We're not like that. You don't want to go there."

"I want people to see Coop and know he's mine." He'll tell them regardless, no matter what Shane says. Carl and Cooper are the only family he has left.

"Fine." Shane throws his hands up, irritated. "You're the boss, Rick." Shane glances down at his chest. "Fuck."

"You're leaking." There's a small wet spot forming at the front of Shane's shirt. He remembers this from Lori's first pregnancy, that first week after Carl was born and she was waiting for her milk production to stop. Carl was a formula baby, through and through.

"I can tell. Hand him over."

He's never seen Shane breastfeed. Shane won't let him, always turns and shows Rick his back. It doesn't sound pleasant or look easy, judging from the way the muscles in Shane's shoulders tense and stiffen. "My nipples weren't made for this, man."

He wasn't going to be the one to say it, not out loud, but Shane's nipples are on the small side. It's not real noticeable, not from a distance. He's used to it. He's been around Shane his entire life; they were always just there, a part of him, like his ears or curly hair.

"I'll send Daryl and Glen to the Target and see if they can find you a breast pump."

"At this point, I don't even care. A year of this and he'll suck them right off."

They sit in the cafeteria while Cooper eats. There's laughter out in the hallway, the sound of Glen telling a terrible joke, and Carl's finally starting to be himself again. The shock and grief is settling so that it's not on the surface and so easily within reach.

Things aren't okay, but they've been worse.

(***)

Glen's the first one to notice.

It's two months since Lori died and he's holding Cooper in his lap, tickling him under the chin to hear a peal of laughter. Coop's just started to laugh in earnest. Rick can't get enough of it.

"Don't get offended," Glen says as he takes a seat beside him. Glen takes off his cap and then puts it back on. "But, uh." Glen cocks his head and examines Cooper. "He doesn't look like Jenner."

"I know." Cooper looks more like Shane than anyone. He's got the same nose, eyes, and hair. There are traces of himself there, though, in Coop's jaw line and the shape of his face.

"He sorta looks—" Glen's trying to beat around the bush, afraid that Rick might get angry with him.

"Spit it out."

"You. He sorta looks like you, a little. More like Shane than anything, but a little like you."

"Well, he should." Glen has a pleased expression on his face. He's congratulating himself for figuring it out. It won't be long before the others come to the same conclusion, assuming Glen can keep this a secret. He'll probably run off to gloat to Daryl the first chance he gets. Rick's glad for that, truth be told.

"So you and Shane…"

"No." He doesn't know what he's saying not to. If they're gay or together, maybe both. The answer feels more complicated than a simple yes or no. He's still grieving and Shane is still angry and they have to be friends again before they can be anything else. "Just once. It's a long story."

"I can picture it, thanks." Glen doesn't seem too disturbed by whatever image is running through his head. "Huh, I wouldn't have thought that Shane…"

"Shane what?"

"Nothing." Glen grins, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. "I'm happy for you. I mean, you lost Lori and Judith, so it's nice to see that you have someone. Not as a replacement, as a way to cope, someone to distract you from the pain. I'm going to stop talking."

"I'm glad you're looking out for me." Glen blushes, looks away.

"It's funny, when we were first betting on who knocked Shane up, I wanted to pick you, but it seemed too crazy. Damn, I had to wash Daryl's socks."

"Gambling's evil, Glen." He adjusts Cooper on his lap and looks out towards the playground. The chain-link fences do a pretty good job of keeping the Walkers out long enough to provide moderate protection. Carl and Sophie are free to play provided someone with a gun is out with them keeping watch.

Carl's standing at the top of an orange swirly slide. He's facing west, the bottom of his too big t-shirt waving in the wind like a flag. Sophia's playing with her mother on the swings, the two of them moving in tandem, feet pointed towards the sky.

"Hey, bud." Shane scoops up Coop who is babbling and reaching for him, clenching and unclenching is fists. Shane's freshly bathed, his hair is still damp, and there's water dancing along his collarbone. "What do you think about staying here for the winter?"

A few more weeks and October will turn into November and in another month the snow will start to fall. It's going to be his first winter without Lori. Judith never lived to see her first.

"We have tons of food, shelter, and there's fresh water only half a mile away," Glen cuts in, watching Rick's face carefully.

"I think it's a good idea. Place sort of feels like home."

Home used to mean Carl and Lori and a house, electricity and running water, the sound of Carl's laughter echoing in the halls.

He takes in the sight of Carl pushing Sophia on the swings, of Shane bouncing Coop in his arms, and the shadows cast by the early morning clouds that speckle the sky.


End file.
